


Release

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Bottom!Coulson, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Self Pity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is, perhaps not so secretly, an adrenaline junky. More than a month of medically mandated desk duty may not actually be killing him, it may actually be saving his life, but that is really a small comfort when it's all he can do to shuffle into an empty Stark Tower elevator at the end of the day and keep from falling asleep leaning against the mirrored wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> This originates as the response to a prompt about sleepy!sex. Specifically, [this one](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6565.html?thread=11626661#t11626661): 
> 
> _Clint eagerly waits for Coulson to come home after a long day doing paperwork, only to see the man come through the door half-asleep._
> 
> _A little bummed out, but understanding, Clint helps Phil get into bed and intends to just let him sleep._
> 
> _Phil on the other hand, has other ideas. (And really, just wants to make his boyfriend happy)_
> 
> _Basically I'd love Phil letting Clint roll him onto his stomach and have slow, sleepy sex while Clint thrusts into him and kisses his back and just generally takes his time, basking in the warmth and comfort that is Phil_
> 
> It did go that way, and also it didn't? There's less sleepy than I wanted, let's say.

It's not that it's been a particularly rough day. Yes, there'd the usual paperwork to fill out, the usual minor catastrophes to avert, the usual junior agents to talk off metaphorical ledges. 

All in a day's work when it came to his life these days. He hadn't even been required to leave the building, and the closest he'd gotten to armed conflict had been breaking up a pre-coffee skirmish over not-so-abandoned donut holes.

The problem is, he's had nothing but days like these for the past five weeks, and Phil Coulson is, perhaps not so secretly, an adrenaline junky. More than a month of medically mandated desk duty may not actually be killing him, it may actually be saving his life, but that is really a small fucking comfort when it's all he can do to shuffle into an empty Stark Tower elevator at the end of the day and keep from falling asleep leaning against the mirrored wall. 

In absolute honesty, the ride up tonight is long enough that he does nod off for a few seconds, only to be jolted awake by the lack of movement when he reaches his destination.

He's met by a familiar but unexpected wolf-whistle once the door opens, and sighs as he approaches the perpetrator, more from relief than weariness. He wonders if his tone will reflect that. Hopes it does. 

"How was Montana?"

"Finished early," Clint says, pushing off the couch and closing the distance between them. "Tony flew everyone else to Vegas to celebrate, but, uh..." he ducks his head, shrugs his shoulder, plays the sheepish, needy boyfriend card as hard as he can, but his gaze is sharp and evaluating as it sweeps over Phil from under his eyelashes. He was worried. 

"Oh." Phil allows himself a smile, and not a moment of anything as petty as envy, as misplaced as annoyance. "I'm touched."

"Yeah, about that..." Clint grins, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him in for what promises to be some high-quality touching, and he goes, not just because resistance would require more effort than he's willing to expend at the moment. 

Clint smells freshly showered and thrums with nervous energy; he probably didn't get to do much on the op, and Phil's not unfamiliar with the resulting frustration, knows the surplus energy has to go somewhere. He lets himself lean into Clint's chest and winds his arms around Clint's waist. It's a mutual weakness right now, and Clint's hands running up and down Phil's back and sides and whatever he can reach speak to that clearly enough. Clint's tongue laps against his own and his hips give a brisk thrust that throws off Phil's balance. He barely stumbles, but it's apparently enough.

Clint pulls his mouth away. Phil tries to follow but is stopped by a hand to his chest, which then moves to frame his face. He blinks, but tries to appear alert as Clint looks him over. He may not be as convincing as he'd like.

"Jesus, Phil. What's Fury got you doing up there?"

"Nothing." Which is the truth, but the fact that he's unable to keep the frustration from his tone probably tells Clint everything Phil doesn't want him to know.

"Fuck," he says, tenderly, as only Clint can, and leans in to press their foreheads together. He's got a hand around the back of Phil's neck and allows him a quick, chaste kiss before drawing away again. "Let's get you to bed, huh?"

Bed. Bed is a wonderful idea. Because even if it is Clint's floor, and there is a couch out here, no one's been living in the Tower that long and sometimes there are accidents, or "accidents" in Tony's case, although, Phil thinks with a smile, he has managed to curb him of that particular curiosity. 

Clint's giving him a particularly concerned look. "Phil."

"Mm?"

"You're de--" Clint shakes his head. Forces a cocky grin as he slides his hands down Phil's chest and tangles them in the ends of Phil's jacket. "Exhausted. C'mon. Bed." 

Clint gives him a tug, and he lets himself be led. Back to the bedroom, where he's stripped of his clothes, in what Clint probably thinks is an unerotic manner. The simple truth is he's having his suddenly much too heavy, much too hot jacket and trousers pealed off of him with familiar efficiency, the buttons of his shirt undone by nimble fingers that teasingly refuse to linger on his skin, his shoes untied while warm breaths brush against his knees, and by the time Clint is pushing him to lie back on the bed, he's had enough. 

He grabs Clint by the arm and yanks; it's not pretty and it sends Clint sprawling on top of him, and he opens his mouth, probably to say something frustratingly sensible for once in his life. Phil lifts his head and captures whatever it is with a soft, dry, but altogether firm kiss. 

_Yes_ , he wants it to say, _yes, it's fine, I want to, right now, I have to._

Clint groans into it, _fuck_ , and then crawls closer, fully covering Phil's body with his own. 

His head falls back and Clint follows. His mouth slips from Phil's lips to his cheek, down his neck and across his throat, quick and fervent and desperate at first but tempering as he goes until he's licking languorous strips of wet heat across Phil's collarbone. Phil runs his hands over Clint's back as long as he can, wanting to touch skin but not wanting him to pull way, even if it is to take off his t-shirt. The slow, rolling rhythm of Clint's hips against his thigh clinches it.

"Off," he manages, and Clint's head jolts up, eyes concerned until he notices Phil picking at his shirt, and then he smirks. 

"You got it, boss," he says, breathless. Sits up, pulls the shirt over his head, and tosses it onto the floor. He goes for his jeans next, thumb flicking the top button open as Phil pulls the zipper down. He's not wearing anything underneath. Phil raises an eyebrow. "Oh, like you're really surprised," Clint huffs, mock-indignant, and Phil laughs. He slides a hand in to give him a quick stroke. Clint gives a wonderful low groan in response, but then grabs Phil's wrist, pulls his hand up, and kisses his palm. 

"Hold on."

"Of course," Phil says, and watches as Clint clambers off of him and the bed and squirms out of his jeans. Phil rolls onto his stomach. Clint quirks an eyebrow of his own. Phil shrugs a shoulder, and stretches his spine a bit. The way Clint's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows does not escape notice, but all Phil says is, "If you want."

"I want whatever you want," Clint says very quickly, and what Phil does _not_ want is to get caught up in a round of circular logic, especially with Clint naked and hard and staring at him with wide, dark eyes, so he just shrugs again.

That's all Clint needs. He squares his shoulders and goes to retrieve the condoms and lube, tosses them down next to Phil on the bed, and then eases on top of him again. Hovers for a moment, presses a quick, efficient kiss to the nape of Phil's neck. And then lets out a choked laugh. Nuzzles close, nose in Phil's hair.

"Sorry, you just...you smell really good," he says, and Phil can feel his body pressing closer, can feel him everywhere, warm and solid and safe against his back. "You _always_...and it's..." one of his hands has slipped underneath Phil and is stroking lazily at his stomach as his mouth works its way down to the curve between Phil's neck and shoulder. "What I missed... _miss_ the most when...I..." Clint's mouth lingers on his skin, muffling whatever he'd been about to say, and he shifts, rubbing himself wrenchingly slow against Phil's ass. 

Phil groans. He's not above it. Clint chuckles, earnestly pleased at the reaction, and kisses his shoulder. Dots a couple more dry pecks across Phil's back, and then starts down along Phil's spine. Open-mouthed and wetter, and his breaths, warm as they are, make Phil shiver. Clint's hand slips lower in the process, fingers running distractedly along Phil's cock. 

Distractedly, and distractingly, because Phil's so busy trying to keep from thrusting into Clint's grip that it takes him entirely too long to notice that the kissing has stopped, not quite halfway down his back, and that Clint's body is now unpleasantly tense behind him. 

It doesn't take him nearly as long to realize why, even without Clint's other hand snaking around him to claw at the matching scar a few centimeters to the left of his heart.

"Barton," he wants to say, to hear the answering "Sir," to drag them both to some familiar territory where they can at least pretend they're able to maintain a distance. But they're beyond that, and he can't bring himself to do it.

He finds himself whispering "Clint," instead, and feeling a sweat-covered forehead press against his back.

"Phil..." Clint says, shaky, and Phil reaches for the hand that's pressed to his chest. He shifts it to the right, to where he knows Clint can feel his heart beating, too quickly for its current condition, but steady, undeniable. He brushes his fingers across Clint's wrist. He feels Clint nod, take a deep breath, and exhale long and hot across Phil's back.

"Are you..." Phil tries, after a moment, but his own voice still sounds dangerously affected. He swallows and tries again. "Are you going to fuck me or not, Barton?"

There's a snort, and Clint noses his way back up along Phil's spine to be able to pant against his ear. "Aw, baby, don't get all _pushy_ on me," the words come a little too quickly, but the tone is almost back to normal, and Phil holds in a sigh. "You got somewhere to be? Something _pressing_..." and Clint grinds a little, of course. "...to attend to?"

Phil rolls his eyes. There's no way he could've seen it, but Clint laughs anyway and kisses the side of his neck. Sits up, sliding his hands out from under Phil and leaving his back cool and uncovered and vulnerable and while he knows it's a necessity, Phil doesn't like the feeling. 

He reminds himself to keep breathing. Hears Clint working behind him. Buries his face in his pillow and folds his arms underneath it. Manages to only shiver a little when he feels fingers carding through the hair at the back of his head. 

"Gotta work with me here, Phil," Clint says, and he turns his head. 

"Hmm?"

Clint doesn't say anything, just slides his thumb down the back of his neck, rubs firmly at the point where it meets the line of his shoulders, and waits. Phil takes a breath and lets it out, tries to force some of the tension out with it. Clint's hand slides between his shoulder blades, and being able to push up against it helps. 

He feels the first finger go in, slick and easy, and he sighs. Clint's hand slides lower as the second finger presses in, and further down with the third, and amidst the slow stretching burn, Phil feels Clint's hand slip. It ends up grazing Phil's stomach as Clint's arm wraps around his waist, drawing their bodies together. His cheek is pressed to Phil's back and when he pulls his fingers out, he mumbles something Phil isn't actually sure he hears and is even less sure he's supposed to. 

But Clint's pushing in then, carefully enough that Phil would normally rankle at it being for his benefit, but he finds that he doesn't mind. And it's a good thing, because the rhythm Clint sets is unhurried, sweet and lazy rolls of his hips that he keeps Phil still for with the arm around his waist. He mouths at Phil's skin, lips and tongue and suction almost definitely leaving marks all over Phil's back. Phil's only reaction to that at the moment is to groan, because he's not able to even rut against the mattress for release.

"What," Clint pants, "What do you want, Phil, what can I..." 

"Just...just touch me."

He can practically hear Clint blinking in confusion. Then, "Shit," and he's being stroked by fingers still slick with lube and it's such a relief he sags into Clint's grasp and laughs. Clint surges up into him and later, Phil will take the time to be truly impressed by his balance, holding the two of them up with one arm, stroking at Phil's cock with his other hand, but now is not the time. Not with Clint all around him and inside of him and nuzzling in between his shoulder blades. 

And it's just been too long, at least by their standards. He comes, and Clint eases him back onto the bed, where he lies in a sated heap as Clint keeps moving in and out of him. Even slower than before, and it's torturous, Phil's already overly sensitive, having Clint rocking over him with that easy grace and branding those whispering, grinning kisses into his skin, it's overwhelming, but he can't even imagine Clint stopping, much less want him to. Through the haze of sensation, he feels Clint grab his hips, keeping him still and close as he pushes in one last time, and there's vague disappointment mixed with the relief, before exhaustion hits once and for all. He falls asleep with Clint still inside of him, still on top of him, still warm and wrapped around him.

When he wakes up, he's on his back again, and Clint is next to him, lying on his side, chin propped up on his palm. He's smirking. Phil's still too hazy to find it anything other than stupefyingly attractive. He blinks as Clint drawls, "Hey there."

"Hello," Phil says, and Clint finds this, for some reason, hilarious. He's still laughing when he leans in to kiss Phil square on the mouth and ends up draping his entire body over Phil's again. Phil doesn't particularly mind.

They're a tangle of limbs and sheets and unproductive but pleasant squirming until it becomes obvious that a second round is not in the cards for the rest of the night. They settle, Clint's head a warm, reassuring anchor on Phil's chest, even as Clint insists on drawing random patterns along Phil's hip and down his thigh with his fingertips. In retaliation, or at least for his own enjoyment, Phil runs his hand through Clint's sweat-soaked hair until he's more than half asleep. Clint's fingers still, and he curls his arm up and across Phil's torso.

"Don't know what I'd do without you," Clint murmurs, sleepy and unguarded, and Phil's heart, already weary with exertion and somewhat overtaxed with emotion, clenches dangerously. His brain goes unhelpfully blank. 

"You'd be fine," he manages, unsure of the tone he should have struck and unsure of what actually came out, but sure that he should’ve said more. 

Clint merely hums, rubs his cheek against Phil's sternum, and says with more clarity than the looseness of his body would suggest. "You sure about that, sir?" 

"Yes."

He feels Clint laugh, a low, reverberating chuckle that runs through them both. 

"Whatever you say, Phil."


End file.
